


so baby pull me closer

by reptilianraven



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, Mutual Pining, Original Character(s), Other, high school but all the d&d races still exist and also theres still magic, teenagers being stupid and also drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 08:06:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25690042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reptilianraven/pseuds/reptilianraven
Summary: Romana Montessa is throwing a party at her house, and it’s going to be the biggest party of the year.Over the course of a booze filled, shenanigan heavy, chaos extravaganza of a party, the lives of five teenagers intersect, intertwine, and come together.(A modern high school au for my friends’ and I’s D&D campaign.)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	so baby pull me closer

**Author's Note:**

> soooooo this is a high school au of my friends and i's dnd campaign. yes, this is for an audience of literally maybe just 7 people. yes, i am posting it anyway. if you want to read about our campaign, feel free to look through my blog's dnd tag[here](https://actualbird.tumblr.com/tagged/dnd-adventures)
> 
> character creds  
> Andromeda - @afflatusssss on tumblr  
> Kelbad - @luisdc-art on tumblr  
> Vanya- @miladymiss on tumblr  
> Theimer - @yun_nyuu on ig  
> Skirmish - my character  
> Our DM is @intensesargasm on tumblr

Andy’s idea of a fun night is her snuggled in her blankets, a warm cup of Twinings Lemon and Ginger tea at her bedside table, reading a nice book—perhaps a nice comfy reread of All That The Rain Promises and More: A Hip Pocket Guide to Western Mushrooms by David Arora—warm and a little sleepy as gentle rain patters against the window. 

Andy’s idea of a fun night is not...this. Not leaning against the marble countertop of Romana Montessa’s kitchen—in her huge, labyrinthine house, oh my god—as people start to trickle in and populate the many rooms. Not awkwardly staring at people she vaguely sees in the hallways of Rhea High School, all laughing and patting other people’s back as the DJ starts to set up the sound system and plays Closer by the Chainsmokers. Not frozen, the familiar lurch of anxiety beginning to pool in her gut as she realizes that for the first time in her life, she is at a Real Life High School Party, and she has no idea what to do.

Alas, she’s here now. And she’s here because she has to be a good friend.

“Do you see her anywhere?” Jason Kitman asks Andy. He’s probably the only person at this party more nervous than she is. He’s wringing his hands. He looks like a pangolin. “I can’t see her, oh my god, what if she’s not coming to this party, Andy?”

“Jase,” Andy says calmly. “This is her house.”

“Oh. Right.”

Andy pats Jason on the back. “She’s probably just going around greeting people, like a nice host.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” Jason nods very, very quickly. Now he looks like a flamingo, ducking his head up then down then up again. Andy feels a little dizzy just watching him. He stops, then looks at Andy with his puppy eyes. “Do you really think she’ll go out with me?”

“She’s head over heels for you. You just have to ask her.” Andy smiles, squeezing Jason’s shoulder. 

“Thank you,” Jason, inexplicably, looks close to tears already. It is only 8:13pm. “And thank you for coming to this party with me. I know it’s not your scene but—”

“You said you needed moral support, and gosh darn it,” Andy puts her hands on her hips and puffs out her chest. “I will support you!”

“You’re such a great friend,” Jason sniffles.

“Don’t cry, oh my god!” Andy panics. “You can’t look like you were just crying before you ask Romana out.”

“Right, right, right,” Jason rubs his face against his sweater clad arm. Andy is really glad Jason is also wearing a sweater. Together, they’re the only two sweater wear-ers at this party. 

Jason lifts his head, then his eyes go wide. 

“There she is!” Jason hisses, pointing. Across the kitchen and in the living room, Jason and Andy have a perfect view of Romana Montessa, smiling and laughing and looking perfect, just perfect for Jason to ask to be her girlfriend.

The only problem is the person who currently has his arm around Romana’s shoulders, making Romana look pained and bored at the same time.

“Who’s that douchebag?” Jason frowns.

“That—” Andy says, knowing that this party has just gone from vaguely scary to absolutely miserable. “—is Malcer Hornraven.”

“You know him?” Jason turns to her, tilting his head.

 _Yeah, he’s only just my childhood bully who made the ages nine to fifteen a living nightmare_ , Andy doesn’t say. What she settles on is, “Wish I didn’t.”

“Oh god, he looks like such a jock,” Jason laments. “I can’t ask Romana out when he’s around. And I sure as hell can’t fight him. Fuck, what do I do, Andy?”

Andy would not consider herself the bravest person in the world, but she is somebody who deeply and irrevocably believes in love. Andy has known Jason for a few months now, and she knows that Jason and Romana are basically meant to be. The starcrossed lovers, the soulmates, the hearts intertwined. They deserve to be together, so Andy knows what she has to do. 

What she does, in order, is this: 

1) She takes a deep breath.

2) She walks over to the part of the kitchen where a cool butch girl and a twiggy little gnome are mixing drinks and she takes one red cup of mystery alcohol.

3) She walks back to Jason and downs the entire cup while Jason watches in horror.

4) She puts the cup down, turns to Jason, and says “Hang back, and I’ll get Malcer away from her. Then you have your chance.”

The way Jason’s entire face lights up makes this worth it.

Andy strides into the living room, with the confidence of somebody who is already a bit of a nobody at school and can’t possibly sink any lower, and walks right up to Romana and Malcer.

“Hi, Malcer!” Andy smiles, even though all she wants to do is decompose in a compost bin and have wonderful little mushrooms grow from her dead body. “Do you remember me?”

Malcer, smart as a bag of wet bricks, takes the bait immediately. He lets go of Romana as he loses interest in her and is now interested in a new chew toy. A new chew toy that is Andy.

“Well, if it isn’t HavenDodo!” Malcer grins, like an asshole.

Yeah. This party is going to suck.

-

This party is awesome, Kelbad thinks, and he’s only been here for three minutes. The DJ is playing Closer by the Chainsmokers and Kelbad thinks it’s a catchy song. When the song ends, the DJ plays it _again_ which is _so awesome_.

Kelbad arrives at the party fashionably late, 9pm, early enough that the good stuff hasn’t happened yet but late enough that the house is already filled to the brim with maybe the entire Rhea High School population. People are dancing, people are drinking, people are having a good time. He can see Romana Montessa dancing with Jason Kitman, he can see student council president Leleigh Kinwright not looking stressed out of her mind, he can see Greg “General” Gromwell already at work setting up traps around the house. It’s great It’s contagious, and all Kelbad wants to do is lose himself in the energy of it all. Maybe if somebody is game, he can have a nice spar in the front lawn while people cheer him on. That’s always fun. Parties are fun.

Or parties should be fun.

Some people aren’t as lucky. 

Kelbad isn’t an idiot, despite what his grades say. He has eyes and one hell of an EQ and he can spot somebody having a shit time from a mile away.

And right now, what he’s looking at makes his blood boil.

There on the couch in the living room is Malcer Hornraven—resident asshat who can get away with anything because his family is filthy rich—talking to Andromeda Havenglow. He’s grinning, sharklike and cruel, as he says words that Kelbad can’t hear. Kelbad doesn’t have to hear those words. He can see, clear as day, that Andy is holding back tears.

“Hey, Malcer!” Kelbad shouts over the Chainsmokers. Malcer and Andy turn to face him. “I heard a bunch of people in the pool area say your dick is small!”

“What!” Malcer goes red in the face, standing up from the couch immediately. Andy coughs into her hand, looking like she just stifled a laugh. “For real?”

“Yeah, totally. Microscopic, they said. Balls the size of M&M’s, they said.”

“I’ll show those punks how to talk about my balls!” Malcer rages, stomping out of the living room and outback to the pool where Kelbad is sure Malcer is going to go on a wild goose chase, shouting about who’s badmouthing his testicles. Kelbad can see Andy’s shoulders shaking slightly in laughter.

When Malcer is gone, Kelbad idles by the couch. He doesn’t sit next to Andy. He figures she’s probably had enough of jocks to last a lifetime, but he needs to know.

“Are you okay?” Kelbad asks her as kindly as he can. She looks up at him, taken aback.

“Yes. No. Uh. Well,” she stutters, fiddling with the cuffs of her sweater. She doesn’t answer conclusively, just segues into, “You’re Kelbad right?”

“Yeah,” Kelbad smiles. “And you’re Andy Havenglow.”

“You know my name?” Andy blinks.

“We met before, at that band club concert that—”

“—that nearly nobody went to, yeah.” Andy smiles, looking much less like she’s about to cry. Then, her expression takes on a mischievous turn. “Were there really people talking about Malcer’s, er. Parts?”

“Nah,” Kelbad shrugs. “Just made something up.”

“Thank you,” Andy says, sincere. She stands and dusts off her skirt. 

“Are you going to be okay?” Kelbad asks. “Parties are supposed to be fun. I don’t want you to not be having fun.”

“I’ll be—fine,” Andy says. It’s not very convincing, but she plasters on a nervous smile. “I just need to do what everybody at parties.”

Kelbad tilts his head. “Drink until you forget everything bothering you?”

“Drink until I forget everything bothering me,” Andy nods, an odd determination in her eyes. “I need to drink until I forget literally everything Malcer Hornraven has ever told me.”

Kelbad doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just raises a fist for a fistbump in front of Andy and says, “Rock on.”

Andy takes his fist and shakes it. “Rock. On.”

And with that, she marches to the kitchen. 

Kelbad has a feeling this won’t be the last time he’s going to see her at this party, but he sets that thought aside for the moment. Right now, Kelbad wants to get a pair of sparring swords and see if anybody is up for a little bit of a tipsy duel.

The thing, about Kelbad, is that he didn’t mean to become a jock. He just likes fighting, so he became Rhea High School’s best player on the wrestling team. He just likes making jokes, so he slowly but surely climbs up the social ladder. He just likes how the school letterman jacket is filled out by his muscles, so he wears it a lot because it’s pretty inconvenient to be wearing armor to school. All these things eventually propel Kelbad into popular jockhood, and thus, he’s been to the Montessa household once or twice before. And thus, he knows that the wine cellar in the basement doubles as an armory and that he can just scoot on over there and grab some things to really make this party a hoot.

Kelbad weaves through the crowd of people undulating to Closer by the Chainsmokers (this DJ must really like this song!) to get to the staircase leading down into the basement, going down the steps, whistling along the way.

He stops whistling the moment he’s in the cellar. 

He stops whistling because in the cellar, looking an awful lot like she’s stealing a bottle of rosé, is maybe the tallest girl in school.

-

Vanya doesn’t like parties, because she doesn’t like people, and parties mean a large concentration of people acting even more confounding than usual. However, Romana Montessa asked Vanya to come, sending Vanya frantic texts the night before about how Vanya totally needs to be there, please please please, I need moral support because I wanna ask Jason Kitman to be my boyfriend, please come to my party!!!!!!! 

Vanya holds very dear to her heart the values of politeness. She also holds very dear to her heart the rules of female friendship, one of which being the rule of all rules; ride or die.

So here Vanya is. Romana was supposed to meet her in the pool area a half hour ago, and Vanya is starting to get a headache from all the yelling and jiving and the poor excuse of a party DJ playing over and over again that blasted Chainsmokers song about mattresses and rovers. 

Vanya needs a drink.

“Excuse me,” Vanya says when she’s made her way to the kitchen, the source of the alcohol. She addresses the butch girl—Barbara, Vanya thinks her name was—because she looks like she’s in charge. “May I please have one of those red cups I see everybody drinking out of, preferably filled with something that will intoxicate me?”

“Sure,” Barbara says. Then she yells, very loudly. “GEEGO, WHERE’S THE FUCKIN’ ICE?”

“Here, here, sorry I took so long!” Geego, a lanky looking gnome scuttles into the kitchen, holding a bag of ice over his head. 

He throws the bag of ice onto the kitchen counter top. Barbara opens the bag, takes out a chunk of ice, and crushes it with her bare hands. 

“Oh my,” Vanya says, watching her plop the smaller pieces of ice into a red cup before filling it up with a strangely neon, glowing concoction.

“Here ya go,” Barbara hands Vanya the drink. 

Vanya takes a sip of it.

It’s. Well. 

It sure is an adjective, of some sort.

“Good?” Barbara grins.

“May I ask what’s in this?” Vanya says, as politely as she possibly can. 

Barbara frowns. “Fuck if I know.”

“But...you created it.”

“I did.”

“And you don’t know what’s in it.”

“Yep.”

“Or, perhaps, why it’s glowing.”

“Do I look like a scientist to you?”

“Thank you very much for this drink,” Vanya concedes, holding the red cup an arm’s length away from herself. “I will enjoy it merily.”

She then makes a hasty retreat and dumps the drink in the nearest potted plant out of Barbara and Geego’s sight.

The potted plant seems to groan.

Vanya cannot drink whatever hellscape it is they’re serving in those red cups. Call her prissy, but she has a defined palate that needs more...nuanced flavors. 

What she needs is wine

Vanya begins to move through the throng of teenagers in a wine-cellar-ly direction. Vanya is Romana’s friend, so she knows that the Montessa’s have a wine cellar and she finds it quite easily. Romana hates her family, so she probably won’t mind if Vanya pilfers a nice bottle of rosé. Or two. 

She’s halfway through tucking a bottle under her arm when she is interrupted by whistling. 

She turns to the intruder, no doubt looking like a deer in the headlights, and sees—

“Jock That Likes Classical Music,” Vanya says as a greeting. 

She may have forgotten his name.

“Scary Tall Girl!” JTLCM grins. “Vanya Morrowstar right?”

“Yes,” Vanya says, awkwardly holding two bottles of rosé that she’s planning on stealing. “And you are...somebody with a name.”

“Somebody with a name you forgot, huh?”

“Memory is not my strongest feature.”

“But stealing wine is?”

Vanya glares at him. “Will you tell?”

“Nah,” JCTLM shrugs, smiling easily. “Fuck the rich, man.”

Vanya nods respectfully. “Indeed. Eff the rich.”

“My name is Kelbad, by the way.” He says as Vanya walks past him to climb back up to the first floor. “Kelbad Soljin.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Soljin.”

And then Vanya bolts. 

She doesn’t know how to people. She figures briskwalking away is an adequate enough way to end a conversation.

When she gets back up to the first floor, pilfered rosé in her arms, she immediately realizes that she can’t drink here. The crowd is too thick, the atmosphere too chaotic, the baseline of The Chainsmokers too heavy. Vanya goes up to the second floor, and it’s not empty, but there is a lot more air to breathe and a lot less people to have to people with.

She finds an empty hallway and leans against the wall, sliding to the floor to sit down. She twists open the first bottle of rosé and takes a swig, relishing the wonderful taste of real flavor.

Then, inexplicably, she begins to hear singing. 

Very familiar singing.

The voice comes from the room in front of her, echoing out heavenly, as the person inside sings with exceptional choral skill.

_”Glory to Helm in the highest! And peace to Helm’s people on Earth!”_

Theimer Strigoi?

-

Theimer doesn’t do parties. It’s nothing personal, it just never seemed very appealing. However, every member of the Rhea High Choir, some of the only people at Rhea High School who isn’t scared to talk to him, told Theimer that this was going to be the “biggest party of the year” that it’ll be “so wicked cool awesome” and that “listen, Theimer, just go and try the booze.” 

So Theimer arrives at the Montessa Household and goes to try the booze.

“Here you go,” Barbara hands him a red cup.

He squints at it. 

And then he squints some more.

“What’s in this?” Theimer asks her.

Barbara throws her hands back, frustrated. “What is this, twenty questions night? It’s fuckin’ booze, it doesn’t taste like piss, and it’ll get you trashed. What more do you people want?” 

“Right,” Theimer says, well aware that his reputation won’t protect him from Barbara. “Thank you.”

And just to show how grateful he is, he drinks the entire cup in front of her.

That's what you do with alcohol, right? Drink it? 

Theimer wouldn’t know, this is his first time having any.

Then, things start to go a little hazy.

Alcohol, he thinks, must be some kind of potion of sorts. It makes him feel _magical_ , makes the world fuzzy and blurry, and makes Closer by The Chainsmokers sound like a good song. He is aware that he is doing a vague interpretation of dancing, right in the middle of the living room. Dancing, he thinks, is pretty fun, when there’s alcohol in his system. He is suddenly filled with the need for everybody to see his dancing, so he looks around and sees—

Yes. 

Perfect.

He sees a sizeable table.

He climbs onto the table.

And then he starts dancing.

People look at him with confusion at first, but then slowly begin to cheer him on.

Smiling, he flails his body around to try and follow Halsey’s sonorous voice, and soaks in the wonderful floaty feeling in his head.

Then, he needs to pee.

“I need to pee!” Theimer says loudly. “Where’s the bathroom!”

Theimer doesn’t know how he got to the bathroom, but he ends up there, which is great, because he really did need to pee. He does his business, flushes the toilet, washes his hands, and then goes to open the door.

He goes to open the door.

He goes...to open...the door…

The door is not opening.

“Huh,” Theimer says to the bathroom. “Are you broken, door?”

The door, in typical door-like behavior, does not reply. 

“That’s okay,” Theimer leans against the door and sighs. He wanted more alcohol. “We all have our bad days.”

The door continues not to reply. 

Silence fills the bathroom, punctuated only by the muffled music from downstairs. Silence doesn’t feel fun. Alcohol makes Theimer want to have fun. There needs to be music in this bathroom.

So he does what feels most natural.

He sings.

“Glory to Helm in the highest! And peace to Helm’s people on Earth!” He sings as loud as he can. Bathroom acoustics are great. “Glory to Helm in the highest! And peace to Helm’s people on Earth!”

“Theimer Strigoi?” Somebody from outside says, her voice muffled. The doorknob jiggles. “Is that you in there?”

“Yes it is meeeeeee!” Theimer sings.

“I think you’re locked in!”

“I _know_ I’m locked in!” Theimer giggles. “What do you think of my singing?”

“What?”

“I _said_ what do you think of my singing?”

“I heard what you said, what I’m wondering is why you want to know that when you are clearly trapped inside a bathroom!” 

“So you don’t like my singing?” 

“I—Urgh, your singing is wonderful,” Her voice sounds a bit pained. “But we have to get you out of there!”

“I like it here,” Theimer says. “The acoustics are great, there’s a toilet and fancy soaps, and you’re talking to me. Not many people talk to me.”

“You’re very, very drunk aren’t you?”

“No, I’m Theimer Strigoi!”

“I know,” A sigh. “I’m Vanya Morrowstar, and just sit tight, alright? I’ll try to find somebody to get this door unlocked.”

“Can you do that without leaving me?” Theimer asks, feeling oddly emotional now. Wow, alcohol sure is wild. “I like talking to you.”

“I—Fine. Fine, I’ll just wait here, in this hallway, and wait for somebody to pass by who just so happens to know how to get a door unlocked.”

“That’s the spirit!” Theimer grins. “Would you like me to sing while you wait?”

A beat of silence.

“That would actually be very nice.” She says.

So Theimer sings to Vanya Morrowstar through a door, as loudly as he possibly can. 

_“Lord Helm, Heavenly King, Almighty god and Ruler!”_

-

Skirmish actually likes parties. The unfortunate thing is that parties don’t seem to like them. They like the chaos of it all, the unhinged enjoyment, the fact that everybody is a little bit tipsy and thus uncaring of the usual masks they put on. Parties are cool.

But parties don’t think Skirmish is cool.

“Hey, it’s Sugarplum Skirmo!” Some kid yells when Skirmish makes it into the house. This prompts a bunch of dudebro looking types go “EYYYYY SUGARPLUM SKIRMO!!!!” 

Skirmish laughs nervously and shoots them a pair of fingerguns. People have been calling them Sugarplum ever since middle school, not exactly unkindly, but it’s _so_ not tough or smooth or rad and thus, is not exactly the kind of reputation Skirmish wants to have for themself. Alas, the nickname stuck. 

People will _never_ think they’re cool…

Skirmish tries not to let this get them down. They plaster a nervous smile onto their face and nod politely at everybody greeting them. They may not be the coolest person at school, but they’ve made a name for themself as the person who Knows What’s Going On.

See, Skirmish doesn’t _get_ their peers but after years of observation they’ve come to the conclusion that all everybody really wants is information. They want gossip, they want the tea, they want whatever juicy morsels of high school drama there is and they want it to be perfectly packaged in a good story.

And boy, is Skirmish a storyteller.

Skirmish gets a drink of fucked up alcohol from the kitchen and begins making their rounds at the party, keeping an ear out for anything they can overhear, any spicy piece of intel they can either relay to the rest of the student population, or anything at all that they can just use for inspiration. The fun thing, Skirmish thinks, as they weave through the crowds and eavesdrop, is that what bullshit they say about anything doesn’t necessarily have to be _true_. It just has to be what people _want_. More often than not, people don’t want facts, they want to know why Greg “General” Gromwell is so kooky (“I heard that he was dropped on his head the moment he was born”), they want to know why Leleigh Kinwright is so high strung (“I heard that the student council is also a secret adventuring party and that she’s their leader”), they want to know where Theimer Strigoi disappeared off to that one week he wasn’t at school last year (“ _I heard he killed somebody_ ”), and Skirmish gives them what they want.

That’s how Skirmish becomes what people want in turn.

They spend twenty minutes on the first floor of the Montessa household, disappointed that no Shit has Gone Down yet. This party is _tame_. Ugh, boring. The most interesting thing that’s happened is that they learned a bunch of giggly freshies from the Spellcasters Club, on a dare, casted a night long Command on the DJ so that he can only play fucking Closer by the Chainsmokers for the entire. Goddamn. Party. 

“Sugarplum Skirmo,” Barbara says as they ask for another drink. “You don’t look too happy.”

“This party’s a snoozefest,” Skirmish sighs, taking a gulp of what they like to privately call in their mind Potion That Will Make Me Fall Down (Eventually). “Nothing interesting is happening.”

“That’s because you came late,” Barbara laughs. “You totally missed Strigoi get trashed off of one cup of booze and then dance on top of a table.”

“Strigoi?” Skirmish’s jaw falls open. “ _Dancing?_ I didn’t even know he was capable of emotion, much less movement that isn’t squinting.”

“Actually,” Geego says from where he’s seated on the counter. “He went upstairs awhile ago and. Er. Never came back.”

“Now that,” Skirmish grins. “Is something that needs investigating.”

“Don’t get yourself killed, Sugarplum!” Barbara calls out as Skirmish leaves.

The second floor of a house during a house party, in Skirmish’s opinion, is usually rather boring. There are people making out, sometimes, but mostly it’s drunk girls having heart to hearts and drunk dudes asleep on the floor. Skirmish is expecting this kind of sight to greet their eyes, but instead, the moment they make it up the stairs, they are greeted by tall, tall, taaaaall.

“You,” Vanya Morrowstar, just the most intimidating girl at school, looks down at them. “Do you know how to pick locks?”

“Yes,” Skirmish says. Then their brain catches up to the question. “Wait, what?”

“Perfect.” Vanya grabs their wrist and starts pulling at them to follow. 

“What?” Skirmish says again, following Vanya despite the fact they have no idea what is going on.

Vanya stops in front of a door, lets go of Skirmish’s wrist, and points at the knob. “It’s locked. Unlock it.”

Skirmish opens their mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “Why?”

Vanya pinches the bridge of her nose, “Theimer Strigoi is locked inside there, very drunk, and he won’t stop singing choir songs until he gets out.”

Skirmish blinks, and now that they’re paying attention, they indeed can hear the muffled voice of Theimer singing to his god. Vanya makes a pained noise as she gestures at the knob.

Skirmish doesn’t really know what to do, this isn’t their usual party fare, nobody’s ever asked them to do anything. Ever. So they just shrug, figuring that if they get Strigoi out, maybe either Vanya or Theimer will owe them a favor. 

Skirmish gets the door unlocked pretty easily, what with the fact that they always have a lock pick tucked into their boot for Reasons (they think it would be cool, one day, okay?) Skirmish steps back from the door, gesturing for Vanya to open it, and she does.

And Theimer Strigoi, who seems to have been leaning on the door, falls right into her arms, sending the both of them crashing down onto the floor. 

“Wow,” Theimer says, trashed as fuck, looking intently into Vanya’s golden eyes with something akin to awe. “You have feathers.”

“And you have no more brain to mouth filter, I presume,” Vanya says, a bit flushed in the face.

“Aaaaaand—” Skirmish says, because they like to eavesdrop, but they cross the line at third wheeling. “—that’s my cue to leave.”

Skirmish gingerly steps over them and scuttles back downstairs. Their brain was already working a mile a minute on what kind of story to spin about Vanya and Theimer, one that’s interesting but not too far off that Vanya and Theimer will hate them too much to not want to do Skirmish a favor.

They’re so caught up in thinking about a star crossed love story—the scariest girl at school and the scariest boy at school meeting at a party and connecting through the door of a bathroom—that they neglect to watch where they’re walking, and crash right into somebody. 

Skirmish lets out a soft ‘oof’ as they fall to the floor, their glasses getting knocked off of their face. 

A very familiar voice—a voice that sounds like soft wind through the forest—says “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry! Here are your glasses, are you okay?”

Skirmish is handed back their glasses and they put them back on and looks up at the girl they bumped into. The girl whose voice Skirmish could recognize anywhere. The girl who’s always in soft sweaters. The girl who makes Skirmish’s heart skip a traitorous beat.

Andromeda Havenglow.

Ah. 

Well.

Fuck.

**Author's Note:**

> im [actualbird](http://actualbird.tumblr.com/) on tumblr!!! this fic has 3 parts total i just wanted to get this out first bc im impatient kjakjbfkasjfas


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